There rings an iron music in my ears ; 
A Martial cadence, chorus of the Hours : 
The years of plenty, the abundant years 
Flee, as the halcyon from the dying flowers. 
The chariot of Miseries and Fears 
Marshals its sombre powers. 
 
Take up thy pen and write !  I must obey. 
No shrinking at that terrible command ! 
Their voices mingle in the feeble lay, 
Their fire impulses the reluctant hand. 
My words must prophesy the avenging day 
And curse my native land. 
 
How have I loved thee in thy faithlessness 
Beneath the rule of those unspeakable ! 
How would I shield thee from this sorceress 
That holds my words imprisoned in her spell ! 
I would be silent.  And the words obsess 
My spirit.  It is well. 
 
O England !  England, mighty England, falls ! 
None shall lament her lamentable end ! 
The Voice of Justice thunders at her walls. 
She would not hear.  She shall not comprehend ! 
The nations keep their mocking carnivals : 
She hath not left a friend !
 
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